


Nothing Can Change This Love

by barefootonabbeyroad



Category: 1950s - Fandom, Hollywood - Fandom, Marlon Brando - Fandom, Old Hollywood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 11:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21493765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barefootonabbeyroad/pseuds/barefootonabbeyroad
Summary: Safiyah Hassan, a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Marlon had met every woman of every kind, but none gripped him the way she had; made him weak in the knees the way she had, moved him to tears when she spoke of her pain the way she had. But when two broken people fall in love, pain is imminent."If you wanted to leave me and roam,When you got back, I'd just say welcome home,'Cause honey, nothin', nothin', nothin' can ever change this love I have for you."-"Nothing Can Change This Love" by Sam Cooke
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Nothing Can Change This Love

“.میں نے اس کی مدد کے لئے عملہ دیا اور وہ اس کا استعمال میرے سر کو توڑنے کے لئے کرتا ہے"

-اردو کہا

"I gave him a staff to support himself, and he uses it to crack my head."

-Urdu Proverb

__________________________

**Safiyah صفية (Suh FEE Yuh)**: An Arabic feminine given name meaning 'pure' or 'most sincere friend'. The name is most popular amongst Muslim communities, especially those in Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Iran, Afghanistan, Kenya, and Tanzania.

**Marlon مارلون(MAR lin):** Given name of unknown origin. It was popularized by American actor Marlon Brando (1924-2004), who was named after his father. Some speculate that 'Marlon' was derived from Marlon Senior's mother, Marie, the 'rie' being replaced by the masculine French suffix 'lon'. Others suggest that it comes from the French word for blackbird, 'merle', with the suffix 'lon' added to mean 'little blackbird'.

_____________________________

**April 1955**

Academy Award winner Marlon Brando. That was his full title now, apparently. Any time he opened a paper and saw his name, it was always prefaced with Academy Award winner. It was perfectly surreal, truth be told, nearly a full month after Waterfront had gotten him the title. The little statue had been placed proudly on his fireplace mantle, polished by his maid once a week, and every time he looked at it, it was as though he'd just learned he'd won it all over again. It was truly bizarre that five years after his first picture, which had not been particularly successful, he was a world famous actor. A household name with a trophy to prove it.

Newly thirty-one years old, Marlon Brando had it all at this point: wealth, fame, status, women from all over the world bending to his whim, a platform for activism, his dream house, a place on either side of the country, an ungodly amount of sex. He had everything he'd ever really wanted and more. The actor was on top of the world. A world he felt he hadn't done anything to deserve, but which he thrived in nonetheless.

It was the final month of filming of Guys and Dolls, Marlon's first musical. And he'd had a hell of a time learning choreography and lyrics on top of lines, but truth be told, it was damned fun. He liked all of his co-stars (sans Sinatra, but what could be done about that?), he liked Joe Mankiewicz and the Thunderbird Joe had gifted him, he liked his character, and he liked the relaxed atmosphere at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayar. It was a fun movie. The most happy-go-lucky one he'd starred in, that was for sure.It was just after 7 AM, and Marlon had arrived early at the studio after a night out. He hadn't even gotten to sleep the night before, now amped on a good amount of coffee and a red pill. Lounged on the couch in with a copy of Life in hand, Marlon tapped his foot unassumingly against the linoleum floor, preparing for a hard day's work.

"Mr. Brando?" A light, feminine, and foreignly accented voice called out to Marlon, who had been so groggily absorbed in an article about art in the armed forces that he hadn't even heard anyone come in. He quickly looked up, eyebrows furrowing when he met his call to attention.

There was a brief silence. She was waiting for him to respond, but in his morning fog, any amount of social tact had escaped him. The woman crossed her arms over her chest, staring at him with a glint of embarrassment in her eyes. "I'm very sorry to bother you, but I am a huge fan of your films, and I was wondering if I could have your autograph?"

Marlon couldn't help but marvel at her. She was drop dead gorgeous. Couldn't have been much more than about twenty-five. Her skin was tinted the same color as the caramel apples he'd buy at state fairs as a child; her black hair the silkiest and shiniest and waviest he had ever seen. She must have been from somewhere in the Orient. An Indian or a Persian, maybe. Marlon didn't see too many Orientals outside of those from the Far East... anywhere, really, besides in magazine articles and occasional film appearances. Arabians and Indians weren't allowed to immigrate to the States in hoards, and so very few existed in America. Immediately, his mind started wandering. Where was she from? What was she doing here? Did she work here? Was she married? Had she seen his films in an Indian theater?

Before he knew it, several seconds had passed of more silence, and he noticed her eyes begin to dart around a little in anxiety. His eyes found the woman's left ring finger, which fell to her side. It clearly graced a gold wedding band, which shimmered beautifully against her tawny skin. Dammit. Well... that had never stopped him before, had it? Finally, he cleared his throat, offering up a faint smile as he set aside his magazine. "Sorry I'm so quiet, sweetheart. It's just that you're so pretty, and it's so early. I've forgotten how to talk, I suppose," he explained coyly, and he noted her immediate exhale of relief. "Of course you can have an autograph. Who am I making it out to?"

The woman handed off the tiny brown journal she'd been clutching close to her chest, mirroring his demure smile. "That's quite alright. I understand. And it's Safiyah. S-A-F-I-Y-A-H."

Marlon snuck a quick once over of her legs, which were hidden beneath a pair of nylon stockings and a bright red, knee length pencil skirt as he flipped through an empty page in the book. It was already filled with several pages of signatures, some of which he recognized— Katharine Hepburn, Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, Jane Powell, Dolores Gray, Kathryn Grayson, Jean Simmons, Frank Sinatra, Howard Keel, Van Johnson. She must've worked at the studio; those were all MGM billed actors. Marlon only wondered how he'd never seen her around before now.

"Safiyah," the actor repeated as he scrawled out a brief message along with his John Hancock. Normally, all he'd write was a simple, 'TO JANE. -MARLON BRANDO'. But this girl was so exceptionally beautiful, and he was in an exceptionally good mood, so she would get a little something extra. "That's a lovely name. What language is that?"

"Persian," she replied quickly with a fond smile. "It's a Persian name... or, well, Arabic, but I've never heard of an Arab named Safiyah."

He nodded slowly in recognition as he clicked her ballpoint pen back into place and quickly shut the book. But he kept it in his lap. He didn't want her to go anywhere. Not yet. "So you're Persian, then? From Iran?"

She pursed her lips, clearly caught off guard by the level of attention he was giving her. He studied her expression. She seemed so... light. Her perfectly rolled hair accentuated her carved out jawline, and suddenly he noticed her lips. They were so plump and kissable; painted a scarlet red that perfectly matched her skirt. Immediately, he began to fantasize about kissing her. Brushing back her ebony locks and running a thumb over those lips of hers."No, but you are close. I'm from... well, now it is Pakistan, but when I left, it was still India. Safiyah... it is a common Urdu name. And Urdu is the language that they speak in Pakistan. It is a combination of Hindi, which is what most Indians speak, and Persian— Iran borders Pakistan, you know, and there are ethnic Persians in Pakistan, actually. So lots of Pakistanis have Persian names. You can tell my name is Persian and not Indian because of the 'F'. Hindi doesn't have a 'fuh' sound, and they use 'puh' in its place because it sounds sort of similar. So Indians always call me Sapiyah," she explained calmly. Her voice was so soothing. Maternal. She would make an excellent teacher, he reckoned. "Sorry, I am rambling. I'm sure you have things to do, you—"

"No, no, don't apologize. That's very interesting. I don't know much about India, to tell you the truth. And I'm very interested in languages and dialects. The way that people speak," he explained, running his hand over the book calmly. "Can you say something in Urdu... Oordoo, I'm saying that right, aren't I?"

"Yes, yes... and, um... well, it always catches me off guard when people ask me to do that. It is like I forget how to make a sentence. What do you want me to say?" Safiyah explained uneasily, tucking a loose strand of that gorgeous hair behind her ear.

Brando considered the question for a moment, leaning back in his seat. "Tell me what your name is, where you're from... and... Hm... your favorite color."

She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes trailing to the floor. "You're someone who knows exactly what they want, don't you?"

"Usually, yes. Yes I do," he explained without skipping a beat, and she let out an airy little laugh.

"_Mera naam Safiyah hai, aur mein Punjab se hoon. Mera manapasand rang laal hai,_" she began, the words dancing off her tongue in the most enticing way. _My name is Safiyah, and I am from Punjab. My favorite color is red._ He loved the way she sounded. The words were so elegant, and so unlike any other language he'd heard before. "_Aur tumko naam Marlon Brando. Tum ek actor hai, aur tum bahut gunavaan hai,"_

"What was that last bit? You said my name--"

"I said, '_and your name is Marlon Brando. You're an actor, and you are very talented_'," the woman explained, her previously shy demeanor quickly evaporating.

His coy little smile widened, and his enthusiasm heightened if only slightly. He wanted to get to know this woman, that much he already knew. "So the word for actor is just 'actor', then? Are there lots of borrowed English words?"

"Yes, yes... Some people would say _'abhineta_' for actor, but only older people, I think. There is so much English in Hindi, it's a bit funny sometimes. For instance, we say _hotal_ for hotel, and _duktar_ for doctor. And _cinemaghar_ for the cinema, and that means... 'cinema house'. And we call the elevator a lift, gasoline is petrol, a policeman is a bobby... and so on."

"That's very interesting... _cinemaghar_. Here, we say movie theater or maybe movie palace, but I'm sure you already knew that," Marlon paused, gesturing for her to take a seat on the couch beside him. She obliged eagerly, much to his delight, and once again, he got a direct glance at her beautiful legs as she sat back and crossed her ankles. "Do most Indians speak English?"

"In this day and age, yes," Safiyah responded quickly. "Anyone who goes to school learns English. We learn our lessons in English, and in business and school, you use English. But at home, we speak our respective languages."

"Once again, I never knew that," he explained, reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and placing one between his lips. He offered one to his newfound companion, and she accepted. But to his disappointment, she retrieved her own lighter from her purse and lit it confidently. No chance to light it for her and get a closer look at her lips. "Do you think you could teach me a few words?" Marlon inquired.

"You already know some," the woman replied confidently. "What are we sitting on right now?"

He stared at her in confusion as he lit up his own fag, shifting towards her to convey his full attention. "A couch?"

"No, we are sitting on a sofa. Do you know the Hindi word for sofa?"

His confusion had not yet faltered. "No, no I don't."

She paused, taking a drag for dramatic effect, he supposed. "Sofa. Sofa means sofa in Hindi. The British borrowed that from Urdu, it is a Persian word. And it sounds like my name. Sofa. Safiyah."

He marveled at that, staring at her in surprise. Truth be told, that revelation floored him a little. Something that simple being a foreign word this whole time fascinated him. Marlon was like that. The little things fascinated him most. "Really? I never knew. What else?"

"_Pajama_ is a Hindi word. It just means trousers... pants, pants is what you'd call them, but in India, pajama are loose and made of cotton. Very soft and comfortable. So the British soldiers in the Raj adopted the style of trousers as something to sleep in, and the name caught on, and now, everyone in the English speaking world calls men's sleepwear 'pajamas'. The word jungle comes from _jangal_. It basically just means desert, which I guess is the opposite of a jungle... And shampoo. Shampoo comes from _champo_, which means, um, massage or lather."

He stared at her with the utmost fascination, scooting a little closer to her so that their knees touched. She looked at him in surprise, but did not move, much to his delight. "That's very, very interesting. Honestly. I had no idea. Rudyard Kipling... the fellow who wrote _The Jungle Book,_ he lived in India, correct?"

"Ah, yes, the man who wrote 'The White Man's Burden'. I do not regard him very highly, but yes. And that is how the word caught on in America, I think, because of the book."

"'The White Man's Burden'? What's that?" He asked, tempted beyond reason to touch her shoulder.

"Oh... it's a poem that Kipling wrote during the Phillippine-American war. It was published in some English newspaper, I cannot remember the name. And it's... well, it's terribly offensive. It is encouraging America to begin an Empire because it is the burden of the white person to tame savage brown people. You should read it some time, if you can find it... it calls brown people 'half devil and half child' at one point. I know you are interested in civil rights, and Red Indian issues."

Marlon was endlessly impressed by this girl. She was an enigma to him. She was beautiful, very unconventionally so, and she seemed so out of place at a major Hollywood studio in Southern California, where the only people with brown skin were Mexicans. And she was smart. Very, very sharp, and he wanted more from her. "I'll have to look into it sometime, I will, thank you... 'Red Indian issues'? Is that what you call the American Indian?"

She nodded at that unassumingly, blowing out a puff of smoke. "Yes, they are Red Indians, and we are Indian Indians. I think it's very silly that they are still called Indians all this time later, but that is beside the point. Do people not call them that here?"

"No, no," he said with a light chuckle. "Here, they're just Indians."

"Well then, what do you call Indians from India?"

He considered the question carefully. "Well, if I needed someone to know I was talking about an Indian from India, I think I'd say Oriental Indian."

"I see," Safiyah replied with a nod, twirling her cigarette between her fingers. "Well... I am an Indian, as far as I am concerned. A Pakistani to anyone who is actually an Indian or Pakistani, but I have never known Pakistan. Only India."

Just as Marlon was about to respond to that, the door to the studio lounge opened. In walked Samuel Spencer, the Englishman studio executive for MGM. He was characterized by his graying hair, his jaundiced demeanor, and his posh London accent. Marlon had only met him once, and found that he was not fond of him. And he could also tell that Spencer did not like him, either.

"Safiyah, what in the world are you doing in here? I've been looking everywhere for you!" He demanded, and Marlon immediately took note of the color draining from Safiyah's face. The life being sucked out of her bright, black as night eyes. The fear that the disappearance of her adorable little smile conveyed. All of that, in a matter of seconds, just by that one sentence. And immediately, he knew.

Jesus Christ. Guilt immediately found its way to a seat in his stomach. Here he was, already thinking of ways to get this girl into bed, and here was her sixty something year old husband, who she was clearly very afraid of, yelling at her at 7 in the morning.

She cleared her throat, leaning forward to drop her half smoked cigarette in the tray on the coffee table before them and quickly reaching for her purse to throw it over her shoulder. The woman began to toy with the sleeves of her cardigan, eyes planted firmly on the ground. "I am very sorry, aap. I wanted a fizzy drink, and I ran into Mr. Brando—"

"Please, call me Marlon," he interjected, wishing so badly that he could say something that would ease the pain in her expression.

"Marlon," she repeated, eyeing him cautiously. But she quickly averted her gaze and refocused it onto Mr. Spencer. "I ran into him and I asked for an autograph, and we got to talking."

The executive let his eyes drift towards Brando, giving him a surly look, and Marlon did not move an inch. He felt frozen in place, just as she did, but his eyes peeled towards Safiyah. She looked petrified, and Marlon wanted so badly to help her. But he knew in his heart of hearts that he would only make matters worse if he tried something now.

After a moment of silence, he began to step towards her, and Marlon could tell that she wanted to step back. But she stayed still for him. Spencer lowered his voice. It was quiet though terrifyingly stern. "_Tum is aadmee se baat karane ke lie nahin hai,_" he finally told his wife in very heavily accented, bitter Hindi. _You are not to talk to this man._

But of course, Marlon had no idea what he'd said, which he resented, for it seemed to shake her. All Safiya did was nod, and then turn back towards a pitying Brando. "It was very nice meeting you, Marlon," she said, her previously bright eyes as sad as could be. "I will see you around the studio, yes?"

Marlon managed a smile that he hoped seemed genuine enough. "I'll look forward to it. Lovely meeting you, too, Safiyah." He turned towards her husband, who he now wholeheartedly detested. "Pleasure seeing you again, Mr. Spencer," he said.

Spencer nodded cordially towards him, though Marlon could tell he was furious. "You as well, Mr. Brando. I hope the picture is coming along nicely," he said. And with that, he made a grab for his much, much younger wife's arm, digging his calloused fingers into her. Marlon saw her grimace, and he could almost swear he heard her wimper. Very, very faintly. "Come along, darling," Sam said in faux chipper tone. He tugged her along, damned near towing her towards the door.

"Sam, I did not get my Dr. Pepper, could I—"

"Shut up, Safiyah," he spat as he opened the door and pulled her out of the room.

And as the door slammed shut behind the two of them, Marlon swore he was going to do whatever he could to help Safiyah Spencer get away from her piece of shit limey husband.

Brando looked down into his lap, realizing that he still had her leather bound autograph book. Just when he was about to get up to return it to her, he decided against it, slipping it into his jacket's inner pocket. Marlon wanted to give himself an excuse to seek her out, or her an excuse to come talk to him again. He was going to offer her his help. All of it that he could give to her.


End file.
